enough to live on
by fiesa
Summary: The only thing that has changed is the way he looks at her. OneShot- Teresa, Patrick. Companion piece to "Caesura".


**enough to live on**

_Summary: The only thing that has changed is the way he looks at her. OneShot- Teresa, Patrick. Companion piece to "Caesura". _

_Warning: Since the last drabble I attempted morphed uncontrollably until it couldn't be called "drabble" in any sense of the word anymore, I marked this as OneShot and hereby give the obligatory warning: beware of drabble-esque plot-less-ness, fractured-ness and angst. Oh, and I'm attempting fluff for this one, too. _

_Set: Before, during and after the series finale. Companion piece to "Caesura"._

_Disclaimer: Standards apply. The lyrics by Vienna Teng, "Enough to go by", are written in italics and marked with ()._

_For all the people who enjoyed "Caesura" and told me so. Thank you for your amazing reviews. They mean the world to me. _

_Easter 2015._

* * *

_(It was years ago, God knows, that you strained to tell me the whole truth  
That you were not mine to save, that you could not change)_

Teresa found them behind the – house? Cottage? Shed? – in the evening, when the shadows morphed into darkness and the last vestiges of the sun disappeared behind the tips of the trees. The sound of running water and water birds were foreign but quickly suffusing into a melody that, she knew, would be a part of her from now on. In the falling darkness the four men almost disappeared in their surroundings. She didn't even know how she found them, it wasn't like she'd been looking for them particularly. Grace had excused herself for a moment, and Rigsby and Cho were sitting on the edge of the dance floor, deeply in conversation. Abbot and some colleagues were flocking together in another corner, laughing, their voices rising towards the sky. A fourth group consisted of mainly female guests. Teresa could hear Tommy's _fiancée_ from all over the meadow to where she stood. How her brother put up with that woman she had no idea. But, she told herself, it was his life, and it was him who would have to live with her. And, in all fairness: she didn't even know the woman. Quite possibly she was the nicest and calmest woman on earth once she wasn't petrified by the prospect of getting to know the entirety of the Lisbon family. On the other hand, Tommy was her little brother and Teresa cared little about _fairness_ when it came to his _happiness._ She'd have to have a long talk with that woman. _So_ not looking forward to that.

There were other things to look forward, though…

It was instinct, she decided when she recognized the silhouettes standing in the darkness behind the little cottage. Three of them had the stocky, wide-shouldered build of the Lisbon men. Oh, instinct all right: she'd always known when they were in trouble. Elder sister through and through. Only when Jamie – peaceful, calm Jamie – made a menacing step towards the fourth person, Teresa's mind screeched to a grating halt. Because she knew the slender built and the blond hair shining in the distant light of the night. Her three brothers, and her – her husband – _what the hell were they doing?_

"What the hell are you doing?"

Three sets of faces turned towards her. In the darkness, she couldn't see their expressions but she knew the fall of shoulders and the instinctive shuffling that followed.

"T…"

"Hey there, favorite sister…"

"We're doing nothing!"

Jamie and Tommy both elbowed Stan in the side. The latter flinched and glared at his brothers.

"Patrick?" Teresa prompted.

Her husband stepped forward and grinned. "We were just talking about the past, you know. And the future. Did I tell you already you look absolutely beautiful?"

He wrapped an arm around her hips and she instinctively shifted towards him, drawn in by warmth and closeness and _Concentrate, Teresa._ She elbowed him, too, for good measure. He had the decency to yelp. Her brothers snickered.

"Don't try to distract me," she told him and glared at her brothers. "Why are you hiding away here? What are you planning?"

"Nothing," her three brothers chorused.

Patrick squeezed her, softly, his smile evident in his voice. "You trained them well." It caused Tommy, Jamie and Stan to glare at him. And then – when would she ever understand them? Men! – they broke into grins, patting Patrick on the shoulder (perhaps harder than strictly necessary, because Teresa could feel him shake under the force of their – affection?) and telling him he was alright. Then, in true Lisbon-brothers-fashion, they made Teresa blush in embarrassment and then in anger, called her their _favorite sister_ and told her they loved her in quick succession and ambled over to where their wives-slash-fiancée were sitting.

Teresa stared after them, torn between helpless rage and complete and utter affection.

"They're even more intimidating than you," Patrick chuckled. "And that's something. Well, at least when they're together."

"You." She turned in his arm that was still wrapped around her waist. "_You._ What were you talking about just now?"

"Oh, nothing important." He waved her question away with a smirk, one that told her that they _certainly_ hadn't just _chatted_. "By the way, you do look stunning tonight, my love."

She wanted to tell him that his distractions didn't work on her anymore, but the way his tongue shaped around the sound of the endearment made her breath catch in her throat.

* * *

Fact: Patrick Jane can make her fall apart with just a few words, and he is the only one whose touch makes her come back to life.

* * *

Teresa remembers the day she fell in love with him. It's the memory of a cold day, perhaps not cold regarding the temperatures outside but cold as in grey walls and dusty, old shelves and the hopelessness and emptiness that is Patrick Jane that clings to this room with its whiteboards, red thread and crime scene photos. The ventilation system outside gleams in its metallic ugliness and the sky is grey, grey as his eyes, and as vast and empty as he feels to her. And he isn't even there right now. Teresa thinks _so far, so, so far away_ that he's moving away from her with every step he closes in on Red John, and she knows he'll be gone before soon. Either killed by his arch enemy or dying the death that comes with the finale of the only purpose in life. She knows the fevered tension will only bring him closer to the brink of collapse but she can't bring it over herself to do what she should do (and might have done, in a different life and at a different time): knock him out and make sure he doesn't leave. Risk losing Red John but keeping Patrick Jane. To hell with his revenge: she'd rather have a moping and living consultant than a dead serial killer _(and no consultant anymore)_.

_[Or does she really? There is a whole world of implications right out there and she fears them like few things ever before in her life.]_

But she knows _the moment I say it it's already too late_ he'd rather die than give up on his revenge, and in a way, she can understand. What she can't understand is how he can do this, to them, to her, to himself. The letter is dry and cool in her hand, crumpled at the edges where she has gripped it too tightly, and she wants to scream and shout, wants to run after him, wants to get the entire team to chase him, trace his steps and stop him from doing anything stupid. Instead, she sits on the old, hard mattress that is his bed, looks at the neat handwriting without reading a word, and feels… nothing. _Don't go_: but why? What reason could she give him that would have made him stay? Because whatever he thinks of her, whatever friendship they have developed in the past years: it's not enough. It's not enough for Patrick Jane to reconsider his aims, not enough for him to change his path for. Maybe she should have told him _don't go please stay I think I'm in love with you_ a lie, something, anything that would make him stop. But she's never been a good liar, never was able to lie with the conviction that is necessary to convince herself and, by rote, the man they call the Mentalist in the CBI coffee kitchens and in dark corners of the city. So she just sits there and waits.

For what, she isn't sure herself.

* * *

Paradox: Teresa believes in forgiveness, but she cannot find it in herself when it comes to Red John.

* * *

_[A conversation:_

_"__Did you ever…" Patrick's voice trailed off after the first few words and Teresa was alerted by his tone that this was something. Something important – to him, to her. To them. They were only yet defining the boundaries of their relationship, the little things like "Don't talk to me in the morning before I had a shower" and "But I like the old X-files re-reruns!" It wasn't always easy, and sometimes even painful, but she was willing to work through it. Because with every painful conversation regarding the past she unearthed a bit more of the man that was Patrick Jane, and it thrilled her that despite the fact that she'd known him for so many years he still hadn't found all her quirks and habits. He enjoyed it, too. She was pretty sure of that. So now she just breathed in the thin light of the new day, her head pillowed on his chest, and waited for him to continue. _

_It took him a while. And then: "Did you ever give up on me?"_

_Teresa did not need to ask what he meant, exactly: it was fairly clear what he was talking about. And it was an important question, so she took her time with the answer._

_"__Yes."_

_She could practically hear his frown. "Yes?"_

_"__Yes. Once."_

_"__Oh."_

_Teresa waited. _

_Finally, he asked, his voice small: "What did I do?"_

_"__You booked hotel rooms before we were supposed to know where we were going."_

_"__Ahhhh. Yes." He sighed, took a breath to start again, hesitated. "That bad?"_

_Teresa shrugged, trying to forget the echo of the pain of that particular day. "Not one of your finest moments."_

_Not saying what needed to be said but trying to keep her from leaving: she'd almost left. She'd certainly given up on him. And then: an aisle on a plane, a crack in his voice. A crack in his façade, and all the things he'd held in – which he himself hadn't realized before, she was pretty sure of it – spilling out and into her. _

_I love you._

_His hand smoothed over her hair. "Despite the ending?"_

_"__I gave up on you then. I was ready to start over in Washington. After your stunt in the airplane I needed most of the night to decide whether to have Abbot let you starve in that interrogation room or to kill you myself."_

_"__Well." He chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I obviously had issues when it came to knowing what I really felt."_

_"__Had?" _

_"__I certainly hope so. Because now, I know I love you."_

_"__In your best interest I hope you do, because I wouldn't be here otherwise. At least, not in this state of dress."_

_A laugh, and another small pause, and Teresa knew there still was something on his mind. "But only then, yes? You worked with me for all those years and you never gave up on me, no matter what I did?"_

_"__I always thought you'd kill yourself sooner or later, but on most of the days I'd have tried everything to save you before it got that far. Oh, except for the day you were released from prison. I was seriously tempted to talk to the Boss to have me transferred somewhere else."_

_"__But you didn't."_

_Teresa listened to his heart beat, calm and steady. "I didn't."_

_"__What have I done to deserve you?"_

_She laughed. "An old Chinese blessing, I think, one that's a curse at the same time?"_

_"__No." He kissed her head, and, when she turned her face, kissed her. "Only a blessing. Always a blessing."]_

* * *

Sometimes she had that feeling.

He'd never been a man whom one could nail down on his principles, or even on his words. He was – it wasn't a nice comparison, but it was fitting – slippery like an eel. He might say he was going to do something but would do it in a way that made it lose all its initial purpose. He might even promise something and yet the way he'd fulfil it would be lacking, not always in the real sense but in the emotional one behind it all. Like the time he had promised her not to leave her behind and then had gone and thrown himself headfirst into danger. She had followed him, of course, and they'd both survived. But to Teresa's mind the promise was broken even if he hadn't really left her behind: the original sense was lacking. She'd quickly learned not to rely on promises from his side. Patrick Jane wasn't a man who thought of promises and loyalty as a part of his life. And it was fine. Teresa could live with that: if he didn't keep his promises, if he wouldn't respect her in that, she wouldn't care about his promises anymore. She was too realistic to think it wouldn't affect her, and she realized she couldn't needle him again and again for it because she was a grown woman and not a little girl. The balance was precarious: she didn't want to be like him just to spite him, didn't want to leave behind her ideals. But she also didn't want to trust him with promises of her own too often. He went and shattered them, again and again, either way. _(Hearts are easily broken, aren't they?)_ So she went and balanced on the thin line between losing herself and losing to Jane while the bastard smiled too-brightly and talked too-cheerfully and played her like a puppet, and all the while she shifted between anger, embarrassment, resignation, acceptance and earth-shattering fear.

Because sometimes Teresa had the feeling he'd just slip away, quietly and without fuss, and would be lost forever.

And leave her behind. He'd just go and she would remain, alone in a life she had somewhat build around him despite her initial doubts. She hadn't been able to help herself: he'd just been _there_ all the time, ever-present. How was she supposed to separate herself from him when he was always close, both physically and mentally, with his dangerous ability to read her mind? He would leave, one day, because he wouldn't be able to live with the consequences of his actions. That way, she wasn't even surprised when he did leave. His reasons focused on her but she knew it was only an excuse he gave himself. He couldn't bear the weight of their responsibility, or perhaps he didn't want to, so he took the only chance he'd always had and had run. Nothing she could have said would have stopped him, Teresa knew, so she let him go.

* * *

_(I'll carry the weight. I'll carry the weight of you, I swear.)_

* * *

A memory:

"What did he want from you?"

"He wanted to know my plans." And, when her confusion shows on her face: "He asked what I was planning. For our future."

"Oh." She can't think of an answer: he looks lost. Horribly lost, and terribly afraid. She wants to reach out and touch him, feel the sharp edges of his cheek bones, the curve of his chin. A few weeks and already she knows him better than she ever did before in the ten years they have worked together: knows how soft his fingers are when they ghost over her skin, knows how his hair feels between her fingers, how his body melds against hers almost seamlessly. She also knows he might shatter if she touches him now, and her heart aches. "What did you say?"

"I don't know."

She grabs the files in her hand tighter because _oh God please no don't take him away again_ she has to consciously remind herself not to touch him too obviously in public. He's staring at the ground, but then he lifts his head and there's a smile in his eyes. A _true_ smile, not one of those cheerful grins that sometimes had her wish she could march right up to Red John and blast him for what he had done to Patrick.

"But I want to be with you. Today, and tomorrow. Is that enough for now?"

"Yes," she says and the relief is so great she feels her knees go weak. "That's enough."

_(Would it be enough to go by if we could sail on the wind and the dark  
Cut those chains in the middle of the night that had you pulled apart)_

Is it enough, she wonders. Will it ever be enough?

* * *

Fact: You can fool others for a long time, but you cannot fool yourself. Realization tastes bitter, suspiciously like lost illusion and the end of a love. Teresa Lisbon lets go of Patrick Jane exactly twice: the first time he near-blackmails her into working with him another time. The second time, he comes back all by himself.

* * *

She never expected to have that many chances.

_Is it enough_, his eyes ask. Years later, worlds, a different time and a different life and different circumstances. No CBI anymore, no Red John. Michelle is still dead and Tommy's fiancée is still annoyingly brain-amputated and Patrick is still infuriating as ever. But he's also sweet, and caring, and humorous, he renovates their lake house and helps out with cases now and then (usually when the team gets fed up with the cases and wants them closed quickly). He smiles at Teresa when she comes back home in the evening, and his hands are warm on her skin. She falls asleep at night listening to his breathing, lulled to sleep by the steady beat of his heart and the familiar warmth of his body. And. It is. It's enough. It's enough because she can see the future stretching out in front of them, bright and beautiful. It's enough because she knows he'll be waiting for her when she gets home, and she knows she can call him and he'll pick up the phone. It's enough because she knows he's finally, finally reached the place where he never dared to hope he'd find peace one day, and the peace shines from his eyes and sings in his touch. It's enough because Patrick looks at her like she's the only being in the universe, like a man who was caught in darkness for a time longer than he can remember and she is the first light he sees after an eternity. Like a thirsty man listening to the song of water.

It's enough because Teresa cannot imagine a day without him anymore, because, from waking up at dawn to falling asleep at night, she feels loved. She wants his face to be the first thing that greets her in the morning and the last thing she sees before falling asleep. She loves his dry humor, the way his eyes shine when he looks at her, even the way his stubborn hair falls into his face in soft curls. He's annoying on some days and perfectly civil on others, keeps secrets and guesses hers, brings her flowers and infuriates her to hell.

Oh, and she loves him.

* * *

"My brothers," she says suddenly. Her voice cuts through the silence that is only punctuated by the rustling of the wind in the ancient willows and the soft ripple of water that float through the open window.

It's the first night of her life as a married woman, Teresa is giddy with joy and disbelief and _love_ so strong she doesn't dare to think of it, and the weight of the fact has yet to settle completely. It's even more difficult when he's so close that she can feel his heartbeat in her bones.

He chuckles, and the sound reverberates in her chest. It warms her to the core. "If you don't mind I'd rather you wouldn't mention your brothers when we're in bed."

"I knew it." Teresa lifts herself until she can see his face. "What did they tell you?"

Patrick grins. "Oh, just the usual. I'm not supposed to hurt you, double-cross you, cheat on you or make you cry. You know, that stuff. Though I'm pretty sure they repeated themselves a few times."

She's suspicious. "That's all?"

"Well, no." He relishes in the way she twitches, the way her frown is evident on her face even in the darkness. "But I figured if I repeated what they told me they'd do to me if I'd ever hurt you, as a FBI agent, you'd have to arrest them."

She glares at him and he chuckles and kisses her; softly, lovingly. "I feel I have married into an overly protective family."

At her mock-astonished glance, Patrick's lips twitch. "What is it, my love?"

"You only noticed this now? And you call yourself a Psychic."

"There is no such thing as a Psychic, Teresa."

Her name on his lips makes her shiver. It feels like _the first time he made love to her held her kissed her touched her like that_ they are an old couple by now. They have known each other for twelve years, after all. And yet, this is new. This is right. It feels like _and we're gonna grow old together I'm pretty sure of that_. His hands on her skin make her sigh, and Patrick smiles into the crook of her neck.

Somewhere: a sound like a closing door. Final. The end of something old, the beginning of something new. Full circles, she supposes.

_Good bye and welcome._


End file.
